


After

by MovesLikeBucky



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Book Omens Week (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Inspired by Fanart, M/M, Making Love, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), soft domesticity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:47:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29006307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky
Summary: After the end of things that isn't to be, an angel and a demon settle into domesticity
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 134





	After

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OuidaMForeman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OuidaMForeman/gifts).



> Back with the second of my two entries for Book Omens Week 2021, this time with some soft domesticity inspired by [this absolutely beautiful art by Ouida ](https://ouidasart.tumblr.com/post/641390479145074688/oh-to-be-retired-with-your-beloved-in-a-cottage-on) over on Tumblr! Look at them! Soft bastards!

It's different, in the aftermath. Different without the subterfuge, without the need to hide what they've always been.

Times past, things were always hidden. Touches were fast, easily denied to be anything; both by themselves and by anyone else. But now…

Now Aziraphale sits in the bay window of their cottage, sips his cocoa and watches the waves. He breathes in easily, breathes out slowly. No new missions come for them. They’re left well enough alone. Party lines, once drawn by necessity, no longer matter. He has the window, he has the sea, he has their garden, and he has Crowley.

Crowley tends the plants every day, getting his fingers and hands and clothes dirty - flash as he has always been, he is surprised to find he likes a bit of hard work. He tills the soil, sows the seeds, reaps the harvest; even now, years on. He doesn’t yell as much as he used to. The roses, for one, don’t respond, and Aziraphale is insistent he can taste fear in the tomatoes if they shudder too much, fussy as he is.

They’ve carved a life here among the chalk cliffs and the waves, the rolling hills and the quiet countryside. A life with mugs of cocoa and tomato plants and rose bushes and a library in the Eastern part of the house (with a guardian to boot). A life with clothes hampers and dish drainers and brooms and front porches. With dinner eaten on the sofa, with a coffee table to kick feet on top of, with lamps and rugs and love and home and home and _home_. For the both of them.

Crowley comes in from the garden, rolls up his sleeves, and washes the dirt from his hands in the kitchen sink. He crosses over to Aziraphale, there by the window, looking soft and inviting in his warm brown jumper. Thin arms wind around Aziraphale’s neck from behind, a sharp nose nuzzles into his hair. Crowley breathes in easily, breathes out slowly. 

Aziraphale touches his elbow, a quiet permission to stay and to occupy the same space. _Stay with me, stay here with me for always, like we’ve always wanted._

* * *

It’s different, in the aftermath. Different without questioning, without the end and their jobs to do. Without the need to suppress what they’ve always wanted.

Times past, things were always fast, always hushed - plausible deniability, in case they were caught, in case something went wrong. But now...

Now Aziraphale can push the shirt off of Crowley's shoulders slowly, can take his time unveiling Crowley’s skin, can press benedictions to it with his lips without looking over their shoulder. He can whisper ‘I love you’ into the scales just below Crowley’s ear, kiss ‘darling’ and ‘my only’ down the sharp line of Crowley’s jaw, as slow and steady as he likes. 

His hands can roam, taking in the sharp angles and sloping curves of Crowley’s spine and his hips as his well-manicured bookbinder’s fingers brush the edge of Crowley’s trousers like a whisper. A question of permission and a question of acceptance both. _Let me in, let me love you like you deserve, like I’ve always wanted to._

Crowley is newly fascinated by Aziraphale’s face. Takes his time kissing the laugh lines at the corner of his mouth, the crow’s feet near his eyes. His cheek, his nose, his forehead - maps made at a glacial pace, inked on the parchment of Aziraphale’s skin with appreciation and love and belonging.

His hands take in soft curves, wiry blond chest hair, scratch love into Aziraphale skin and tweak at his nipples. Crowley pushes so close to him, holds him so tight, that Aziraphale sometimes thinks Crowley wants them to become one being. And, in a sense, haven’t they always been, really?

Aziraphale can flick open the button of Crowley’s trousers, can cup his slight arse through his boxers, can take his time teasing little moans and gasps from Crowley that land as soft puffs of warm air against his skin. He wouldn’t trade anything for this.

They do things the human way now, the slow way. A click of a cap, a slow opening orchestrated alongside breathy moans and litanies of ‘please’ and ‘angel’ and ‘need you’.

Aziraphale can appreciate now, can watch the changes in Crowley’s face as he pushes into him. He can watch each change that the slow drag of his cock brings to long beloved features, or the way that slender hands with sharp nails scrabble at the bedsheets, fisting them in ecstasy as Crowley keens with every thrust.

He can go slow now, the pace he prefers. Can appreciate the warm, wet heat of him. The tightness that builds his own release closer. Closer. Closer.

Aziraphale gasps out his own ‘I love you’s and ‘darling’ and ‘my only’ as he wraps a hand around Crowley’s cock, strokes him slow and to completion as the demon writhes under him, nails scraping down his back, right where his wings connect, as Crowley comes across both their chests. The pleasure-pain of it makes him shudder, just as intense as anything else as he chases his own release. As Crowley whispers ‘beautiful’ and ‘precious’ into their shared airspace.

Aziraphale follows soon after, comes deep inside of his demon, his love, his only. They fall together, a tangled mess of limbs and smiles and languid kisses, in the world of the after.

In a world that is theirs.

  
  



End file.
